End of October 2021

The sun climbed through a foggy haze as we pulled up anchor and got underway. Our time in Prisoners Harbor had been memorable but too short, and we hoped that ‘future-us’ would be able to spend more time here, maybe go ashore and explore some of the smaller trails, check out the undersea world, and see some of the critters that call this place ‘home’. But for now, if we wanted to see the rest of the island AND Painted Cave, we needed to begin moving.

We motored slowly, following the coastline clockwise, looking for wind. And soon enough we found what we were looking for, the wind picked up, the temperatures climbed and the veil lifted, what a spectacular day! How was this the end of October? Our worries were far from our minds as Charles and I basked, short-sleeved in the radiant sunshine.

Our first possible stop was just around the point at either Scorpion Anchorage or the smaller adjacent Little Scorpion Anchorage. We did a slow drift-by to assess the situation and decided to keep going, the ferry had just unloaded its hordes at Scorpion and a big group was already gearing up, ready to take-to-the-seas in a vibrant array of awaiting kayaks. If we were to anchor here we would be an attraction to paddle around, and since it was still so early, it would make for a very long day. We decided to keep going, there would be other less-inhabited possibilities.

In addition, wind and sea conditions for visiting Painted Cave were aligning perfectly and it looked like tomorrow would be the most favorable day. We wanted to get farther around the island today so that we would be well-positioned to head for the cave tomorrow morning.

As we came around the easternmost point of Santa Cruz Island towards Smuggler’s Cove (another possible spot to spend the night), the wind picked up enough for us to unfurl the big genoa, encouraging us to keep going to the next anchorage. The wind was shifting to come from the south which was giving us our weather window to visit the cave and would also (fortuitously), give us enough wind to turn off our engine and sail today, so we did, gliding along silently on glassy-calm seas, sliding effortlessly past towering terracotta-colored cliffs topped with dried desert scrub. The cliffs gave way to the occasional valley containing the only shade-making trees that we were able to see from our peripheral perspective.

Conditions were so calm that Charles put up our hammocks and enjoyed the ride. I, on the other hand, was too nervous, with the giant genoa on ‘my side’ of the boat I was certain I would be unceremoniously launched by a freak gust of wind catching the sail and propelling me overboard. It didn’t seem worth the risk. Not to mention, having me (Nervous Nelly) on the bow in my hammock right beside him, sharing my every thought and feeling, would have made Charles’ experience decidedly less relaxing.

As we neared our intended anchorage for the night, Coches Prietos, we were disappointed to discover three other boats already there and a single boat in the center of the smaller cove next door. We had hoped that, it being a weekday there would be few-to-no boats, but alas. We dropped anchor farther out, in deeper water (“Good thing we bought so much anchor chain!”, says Charles trying to justify having bought so much anchor chain) and spent the rest of the day relaxing in our hammocks (video here) and baking a banana bread with some bananas that were beyond even Charles’ idea of still-edible.

Our biggest unanticipated excitement of the day was the vhf radio picking up broadcasts from Coast Guard San Diego as well as messages to “keep a safe distance” from war ships out on maneuvers. We had only just gotten used to hearing “Coast Guard Los Angeles”, it still gave us butterflies. Hearing the words would jolt us into our new reality. We were proud of ourselves for making it this far, step-by-step we were accomplishing a pretty major goal, moving glacially slow, but making forward progress.

The next morning we were up early and got underway quickly. Our glorious, sunny, vibrant day yesterday had been replaced by low, overcast skies. Overnight the color had drained and the light had muted into endless shades of gloom. Can dismal be pretty? Maybe picturesque is a better word. Charles took advantage of the cooler weather by clearing out our cockpit which had become overly cluttered with storage crates and tools that needed stowing. We had gotten used to half of the space being unusable, but now, with the whole thing open and free, I felt like spinning around with arms outstretched, it looked fantastic!

Motoring around the western point of the island the cloud began to lift forming an overcast ceiling and increasing our visibility at water level. Santa Cruz Island was spectacular from our vantage. The rocky, windswept landscape appears melted and scoured, inhospitable, as it rises from the inky depths primeval and untamed. We scan the cliff face marveling at the resulting sculpture, a gradually but constantly, changing masterpiece. This end of the island gets fewer visitors due to the extreme conditions that frequently exist here, making the experience even more rare and magical.

Charles had identified a small spot just east of Painted Cave where we were hoping to anchor briefly while we explored. We were headed towards this point, keeping our eyes peeled for the cave entrance, excitement welling up in anticipation. The entire coastline is pockmarked with sea caves of varying sizes, many of them jaw-droppingly huge, but Painted Cave is the most famous, being the biggest in California and fourth largest in the world (by length).

As we neared the location of the cave we could see that we were not the only visitors, another boat had beat us to it and was milling about near the entrance. We slowed to an idle and circled as Charles checked our charts for the nearest anchorage while I looked out at the vista and marveled that I was in a place like this. Younger me would have never even imagined this as a possibility. And then it got even better.

I saw a faint movement out towards sea, was that a blow? It was difficult to tell against the muted grey backdrop that filled our field of vision. My eyes focused on the spot just in time to see another blow and the dark arch of a back punctuated by a tiny dorsal fin indicating a humpback whale. We had whales! At least two of them, and they were headed our way lunge-feeding, throat-pleats extended, their giant mouths agape, stretched wide and closing on schools of finger-sized fish as they rose from the depths, then diving again to repeat the process. We watched as the melee grew, the messy eaters attracting seagulls, pelicans, sea lions and dolphins (or are those porpoises? Or both?), all materializing out of nowhere. With each new lunge the frenzy would intensify as the scavengers all jostled for a morsel.

For about 30 minutes we watched the whales repeatedly diving and feeding before the pair headed off at an easy pace, the chaos and commotion diminishing. In the meantime, the powerboat had set its anchor just east of the cave where we had been hoping to, so we headed off towards the next anchorage, Cueva Valdez, where we were intending to spend the night (video of coastline from Painted Cave to Cueva Valdez). It would be a much longer dinghy ride but we were confident Hammock Express would make it, with our old dinghy we wouldn’t have bothered trying. As we headed out, the anchored powerboat hailed us on the radio, they knew the people who made our dinghy and had loved their OC Tender when they had one. It turns out, they used to live near the OC Tender headquarters in New Zealand. What a small world.

We got anchored securely at the most picturesque spot we have ever anchored (video of Cueva Valdez, Santa Cruz Island) and Charles lowered Hammock Express into the water while I grabbed my big camera. Conditions were perfect as we headed out but that could change quickly, adding urgency to our excitement. We didn’t want to be in or even near the cave when conditions worsened. We zoomed along getting our dinghy up on a plane, this was our first long ocean trip and it was fun seeing what our gas motor could do.

Before we knew it, we were nearing the anchored powerboat and could see the name Tangaroa across her stern and Beth and Tom, adorned in scuba gear on her back deck. We stopped in for a brief introduction, (we wanted to get to the cave while conditions were good, and they wanted to get in the water) and soon discovered they would also be spending the night at Cueva Valdez Anchorage. We made plans to chat later that evening.

We continued along the coastline, the anticipation growing, we had to be getting close. As we rounded the last small point of land the entrance gradually revealed itself, the seemingly impenetrable rockface jutting from the unseen depths had been transformed by time and relentless elements into a place of wonderment and fierce beauty, a natural cathedral inspiring reverence and awe. The entrance to Painted Cave is huge, taller than it is wide at over 160ft (49 meters) in height, the size being very hard to fathom with nothing for your brain to use for scale. The cave extends 1227ft (374 meters) back from the cliff face but narrows significantly about halfway along, past which only the brave or senseless dare to venture.

As we moved towards the entrance I reminded myself that when conditions are calm the ferries will sometimes go to the cave, poking their bows inside and giving lucky ferry-goers a very rare experience. If the cave was big enough for them, it was big enough for our dinghy! We got out our flashlights and readied our oars just as a precaution. If the propeller got caught on kelp, or broke hitting an underwater rock (this is a cave!), … or, … or, … my mind was a disaster cornucopia filled with all of the things that could go wrong, and so, using the motor, but with oars at-the-ready, we advanced as quietly as possible, hushed by deference for the sight before us. (Video of our dinghy trip into Painted Cave)

Slowly we headed in, both dumbstruck by the immensity of the massive chamber, the soaring vaulted ceiling rising 160ft (49 meters) raining water droplets all around, the air humid and cool, thick with a rhythm of its own. Soon we were swallowed, the light and sounds of the outside world diminishing quickly, muffled and drowned out by the echoing sounds of the inner cavern. Charles turned off the motor and we drifted using the oars to steer, and thankful that we had brought our flashlights. Behind us, the cave entrance was blindingly bright but that brightness did little to penetrate the darkness ahead. With flashlights on, we were able to see better the pinks and purples and oranges and greens and reds that naturally cover the cave walls making it easy to see why the Chumash named it hax̓inu mupʰ nuwaštipa meaning ‘big painted cave’.

Ahead of us the cave stretched on into smaller and smaller chambers, each one lower and more constricted than the last. We sat floating, rocking gently in the largest gallery, looking around, our flashlight beams sharply defined in the darkness highlighting the swirling movement of the misty air, their spotlights illuminating the vibrant display on the walls and ceiling, as water droplets fell around us. After a few minutes we began to slowly move towards the first of the narrower caverns and, out of precaution, Charles turned the dinghy around in case we needed to get out of their quickly. We weren’t sure there would be space to do a u-turn if we went further, and he didn’t want to have to try and back out quickly if something went wrong.

Slowly, gingerly, we backed up towards the narrow opening of the chamber, my mind calculating how much head-room we would have if a wave came in and if our oars would be too long to be useful in the confined space, all the while hoping there were no rocks lurking unseen under the water’s surface. My thoughts flashed from one disaster scenario to the next until they were abruptly stopped short, interrupted by a low rumbling moan, quiet at first but getting louder until the sound encompassed us, echoing and becoming a roar. We both froze, wide-eyed, staring into the blackness of the throat-like tunnel ahead as it sounded again, reverberating around us. We could ‘feel’ the sound. It was much angrier this time, agitated, whatever ‘it’ was, it was not happy we were there.

In terror, we sprang into action, would this be how our story ends? What creature lurks in this place and why is it so angry? How did we get so far from the entrance? Would the curse words emanating from our mouths be the last sounds we uttered? Tune in next time for answers to these and other hypothetical questions, and apologies for another cliff-hanger.